


An Enchanted Evening

by Elendiliel



Series: The Bard, the Witcher and the Apothecary [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Aretuza (The Witcher), Empathy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendiliel/pseuds/Elendiliel
Summary: Some people never learn... Jaskier's somehow convinced Geralt to play bodyguard at another royal function. In the hope of avoiding too-spectacular trouble, Geralt seeks assistance from a seemingly unusual source. Shenanigans surely await - especially given that the event itself has some unusual aspects.
Series: The Bard, the Witcher and the Apothecary [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017163
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, sweet stars, what are _they_ doing here?”

The remark was addressed to nobody in particular, but the only other person in El’s apothecary still responded. “Who d’you mean?”

“Geralt of Rivia and his friend Jaskier. Half a street away and closing.” Tara didn’t ask how El knew that. She’d very quickly learned that her apprentice-mistress’s senses picked up things others’ did not, and vice versa. Besides, there was a more urgent question that needed answering. “Geralt of Rivia? Do you mean the White Wolf?”

“Is there another? They passed through here about six months back. Sorted out a… problem… for us in exchange for some professional expertise. We’ve been corresponding, on and off, since then, but I didn’t know they’d be in this neck of the woods any time soon.” El didn’t want to go into detail about the precise nature of the problem. She’d had nightmares about it for weeks, the first ones she could remember. Only Tara’s arrival had forced her to pull herself together. In any case, there wasn’t time. The aforesaid witcher and bard were almost at the door. At least this time both were upright and uninjured. Social call? She wouldn’t have expected it of Geralt, open invitation notwithstanding.

She suspected she wouldn’t have long to wait before her curiosity was satisfied. Once the ritual hello-how-are-you-fine-thanks had been exchanged (well, that was how it averaged out between Geralt’s economy of style and Jaskier’s flowery greetings) and she’d introduced them to Tara, Geralt suggested adjourning to the tavern, something that clearly agreed with Jaskier. Geralt had phrased the invitation such that it appeared to include Tara, but with an undertone that indicated that they had something private to discuss.

The implication wasn’t lost on Tara. She was easily one of the most intuitive people El had ever met. She’d do well in their profession, wherever she ended up. “I said I’d meet Andrei and some of the others for lunch, if that’s all right with you.”

“Absolutely. Off you go, and look after yourself. I’ll see you back here in an hour.” The younger woman didn’t need telling twice, heading out of the door in a swirl of red and gold. El shut up the shop temporarily and led her friends to their next destination. She was in credit at the bar again (new baby, prone to colic), and organised all three of them some food and drink while the others found them a secluded table where they could talk properly.

“So, that’s Tara?” Jaskier and El had been exchanging letters intermittently over the previous half-year. She’d kept him abreast of developments in her life, such as they were, including her new apprentice; he’d poured out his heart about his various lady-loves and somewhat stormy relationship with his best friend. (Geralt was a less frequent correspondent, but the odd message turned up now and again. She didn’t always know, or want to know, how, or how he received her replies.) “You didn’t say she was beautiful.” El had half-expected him to wax lyrical about Tara’s golden locks and sapphire eyes. The other half, though, knew that neither she nor Geralt would have reacted well, and knew he knew that. All the same, she had a duty of care to the girl, and Jaskier had a certain reputation.

“She’s young enough to be your daughter, so don’t try anything. I’m worried enough about her as it is. She’s only here another seven months. When it’s time for her to move on, I don’t want her to have to choose between her calling and her heart – or, for that matter, her honour.”

“I keep forgetting you’re older than you look.” That could only be taken as a compliment so easily. Actually, El was twenty-five to Tara’s twenty-one, Jaskier’s remarkably well-preserved forty and Geralt’s frankly pickled hundred-odd, but while her face could still pass for twenty, her coinage-metal eyes betrayed the premature maturity common in eldest children of large families. Part of her had grown up too fast, and another part not at all. Now she was trying to mother a girl just four years younger, without having ever lost her own heart or head. Once again, she mentally cursed her sense of duty, and only just stopped herself doing the same to her gifts.

Geralt interrupted their conversation before it could become an argument. “This isn’t purely a social call. We – I – need a favour.” Well, that had been very much on the cards. She’d half-forgotten just how good Geralt was at keeping his emotions beneath the surface, where only close friends and people like her could see them. To her, he was radiating awkwardness and embarrassment, but not a hint showed on his face.

Jaskier spared his friend some of that embarrassment – potentially at the cost of another kind. “Yours truly has been invited to perform at one of the most glittering events in the social calendar.” He’d probably have gone on at some length about this event, but Geralt, knowing the bard all too well, blocked that avenue of conversation with a glare. Undaunted, Jaskier carried on along a more direct route. “I’ve persuaded our renowned witcher to grace this august occasion with his presence, and he expressed a seemingly unnecessary yet somehow understandable desire to become more acquainted with certain customs and matters of etiquette beforehand.” Did he always bury his point in elaborate phrases when discussing difficult subjects?

Geralt translated. “He means he wants me along as a bodyguard in case any angry husbands try to kill him. And after the last time this happened, I wanted to be better prepared.” That, of course, caused Jaskier to tell – in detail – the story of Princess Pavetta of Cintra’s betrothal feast, complete with Geralt’s commentary. The romance between the princess and her cursed lover was the subject of one of Jaskier’s best-known ballads, but he’d inexplicably left out part of Geralt’s role, including his bond with Cintra’s current crown princess. _That_ had the potential to be _very_ interesting in the future, but El decided to shelve the subject for the present. For one thing, any such discussion with Geralt was likely to end in a tirade from at least one of them, and she was _not_ in the mood for that.

“Well, I’ll do my best for you, though I can’t guarantee anything. I’ve never really moved in such exalted circles. What is it exactly that you want to know? And what _is_ this occasion?”

“You’ve heard of Aretuza?” El nodded. Oxenfurt, her childhood home, wasn’t far from the sorceresses’ academy, and she had contacts at Ban Ard, its male equivalent. “Their final-year students will be undergoing their initiations next week. There’s a ball afterwards, where the new mages meet their new masters.” Geralt’s tone and emotions made it clear that he didn’t mean _master_ in the sense that she was Tara’s mistress. He disliked the system, but not enough to try to change it.

“And you want me to teach you which knife and fork to use, and how to address all the kings and princes and that.” El did know such things, largely in theory. She was a stickler for etiquette at home, and her family was relatively well-connected, but not to _that_ extent. (Jaskier could probably do just as good a job, but she could see why Geralt might not trust him wholly with such a task.)

“In part.” The awkwardness had intensified. “I’d also like to learn how to dance.”

The implied admission momentarily floored her. Not knowing how to dance was, to her, almost like not knowing how to walk. It certainly came much more easily than fighting, which it greatly resembled. How had Geralt lived for over a century without learning something so closely related to his key skills?

She recovered quickly. “As I say, I’ll see what I can do. I presume you mean courtly dances, rather than the country sort?” She could remember all those still, she thought, though the wilder kind was more her style, and far more common out here.

He confirmed her assumption. They’d finished their meals, and Tara was presumably back at the shop, or would be soon, so that was where they migrated for further discussions. Tara was, indeed, hard at work making up a batch of hay-fever remedy, always in great demand at that time of year. El would be sorry to see her go, but sorrier to stop her from reaching her full potential. With her skills and dedication Tara could easily find a good place in a capital city, or even at a royal court. It would suit her, much better than it would have El even if she’d looked normal. Everyone had a place, a calling, a fate. She knew Geralt would disagree, but quite honestly she couldn’t care less.

She took up her usual place and tasks, dealing with the small emergencies, routine visits and standing orders that filled her days. At first asking Geralt and Jaskier to help with a bit of overdue tidying and deep-cleaning seemed a good idea, but when only Geralt’s reflexes saved her distillation equipment from certain breakage at Jaskier’s hands she dispatched the bard to do some stock-taking among her less dangerous herbs and the witcher to medicine-making under Tara’s supervision, while she put everything back the way she liked it. Finally, closing time came, Tara discreetly made herself scarce (heading up to her room, not out to her friends, to El’s surprised relief) and the others applied themselves to the task of making Geralt fit for a royal occasion and keeping Jaskier alive at said shindig.


	2. Chapter 2

“All right, now for the tricky bit…” El really shouldn’t have been surprised at how quickly Geralt had mastered the fine points of etiquette as they applied to such occasions, and as best she remembered them. In his line of work, you learned fast or you died. Painfully and messily. With any luck that wouldn’t apply here, but she still wasn’t going to let him disgrace himself. They’d agreed that he shouldn’t try _too_ hard to fit in – that always rebounded on one’s own head. But he should be safe from the worst mistakes, and be able to avoid unwanted trouble. That just left the other part of his request.

“Think of it like set sparring. Did you do that when you were in training? You’re not pretending to hurt anyone this time, but you want to match my rhythm as well as the music. Watch me carefully, and try to copy my movements unless I say otherwise. I’ll do my best to talk you through it as we go. It might take a few tries, but you’ll get there. And honestly, don’t worry about stepping on my feet. Everyone does at first. All clear? Excellent. Ready, Jaskier?”

While Jaskier played the introduction to his initial piece, El let the music fill her from crown to toes and fingertips as she ran through the first of the courtly dances she had learned so, so long ago in her head. Doing her best to maintain a running commentary, she flowed through the steps of a waltz, trying not to lead Geralt too obviously. She generally did end up leading, whatever the dance, especially with an inexperienced partner, but there was such a thing as keeping up appearances. Geralt did, indeed, make a fair number of mistakes, but fewer than most beginners, and didn’t tread on her toes once. They ran through the dance several times, until he was satisfied, and moved on to another, and another. He _really_ learned fast. She’d been right – this wasn’t so different from sparring. Focus, precision, timing. Anticipating your opponent/partner’s movements and acting accordingly. The only difference was the final aim. One was intended to make people better fighters; the other could maintain or improve social status, signal favour and disfavour, or be just plain fun. She knew which was _her_ mark.

She noted the steadiness of both their heartbeats as they swirled around a common centre, one of Geralt’s hands in hers, the other on her waist, and vice versa. She knew Geralt’s heart belonged to another, someone neither he nor Jaskier was willing to discuss with her. Besides, one of her talents – one she didn’t like much – showed her how others saw her. Geralt thought of her as a kindred spirit, a much younger sister, and to some extent a confidante. That suited her. He was good-looking and _very_ well-built, but not really her type even if he hadn’t been about four times her age. Love would come her way in time, or it wouldn’t. She had plenty to do without it.

Finally, and as always before she was ready, they were done. Geralt was confident he could make it through the full event without disgracing himself, and Jaskier was more than half asleep, despite the fast pace they’d been setting towards the finish. This was quite possibly the first time she’d had a dancing partner who could keep up with her for a whole evening. Once the music took control, her mental stamina was unlimited, and her body kept up somehow. She’d exhausted many a young man on the dancefloor. (Normally near the end of the night, when wine or ale had taken the edge off their suspicion of her eyes.) If only she could keep that up in the rest of her life…

“When do you need to leave?” El didn’t like to bring up the subject, but it had to be broached some time. Along with where they were staying that night.

“Mid-morning tomorrow, at the latest. And before you ask, I rented two rooms at the tavern before we came here. No need to show us the way.” Geralt had thought ahead, of course.

Something else was on his mind, though, and it was annoying her. “What do you want to ask?”

“Would you like to come with us? That is, if you think your apprentice can look after things here.”

That took her aback. She ran through the arguments for and against accepting in her head before replying. She hadn’t left the village for more than a day in three and a half years, and was due some time off. Geralt might be an excellent pupil, but she knew she wasn’t as good a teacher, and there was still so much that could go wrong. She could remedy at least some of that. Getting in might be tricky, but where there was a will, there was a way. And she’d stand out like charcoal in snow, but that was nothing new. Her patients and customers relied on her, but Tara was learning fast, and had been technically brilliant long before she’d begun her final apprenticeship. She could hold the fort long enough, and needed the experience. The casting vote belonged to the sensation deep in her chest, the one that told her when something was _right_. This, going to this ball with these people, was _right_.

Pointless to fight that feeling. “I’ll have to ask Tara, but yes, I’d love to come. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Geralt’s distinctive smile, neither exactly happy nor ironic. “We’ll be back here after breakfast.” He woke Jaskier, who was nodding off over his lute, and they slipped out as silently as a pair of ghosts, sparing her reputation.

El headed up to her room, head spinning. She wouldn’t get to sleep for a while, she knew. To pass the time, she hunted out her old travelling pack and started to gather everything she’d need for the journey and the ball. Enough changes of clothes. Hairbrushes and hairpins. Her earring collection, her one vanity in normal times. Cosmetics and scent. Her very best jewellery. And, of course, her ballgown. It hadn’t been worn since she’d left Oxenfurt, and she had no idea why she’d brought it on her travels, but there it was, barely creased. She folded it carefully to keep it that way. No doubt it would be eclipsed by those of the sorceresses and royal ladies, but that was no reason not to make an effort. At last, as close to fully packed as she could be and her limbs beginning to protest after their earlier exertions, she changed into her night-shift and lay down for a few hours’ rest before a long trip.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the length of this chapter, and any deviations from canon or errors in period detail. Feedback, as ever, very welcome if anyone's actually reading this.

“Sweet stars…” El’s favourite exclamation had never seemed more appropriate. Aretuza’s Great Hall was _stunning_ , even by her high standards, and part of that beauty was a faithful replica of the constellations and nebulae above them. It made the days of riding and walking, and not least the portal they’d taken from Ban Ard (new datum: her stomach did not like portals), worth it in itself. And that was before she began to consider the tables of food and drink already laid out, or the cream of high society filling the room. Almost every royal and noble house on the Continent, other than those under Nilfgaard’s malign influence, was represented, although few would be actively seeking new court mages. Aedirn, Temeria, Kaedwen, Lyria, all the small kingdoms up near the Dragon Mountains… (Not Redania, unsurprisingly, or Cintra. Apparently Cintra had a longstanding ideological objection to the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. El wondered why. In her experience, every feud and prejudice had some tenuous basis in perceived fact.) Only one such guest had deigned to notice her and Geralt, a portly, colourless man in a jewelled crown watching a golden-haired woman of about thirty as though she would vanish if he were to take his eyes off her, who had acknowledged the witcher with a discreet but respectful nod. Geralt had identified them to her as King Foltest of Temeria and his niece (and, he confided for her ear alone, daughter), Crown Princess Adelaide. Nobody else seemed interested in the uninvited pair, which suited El perfectly.

The evening had only just begun, and was still in that awkward phase before the critical number of people had migrated to the dancefloor to persuade others to join them. Everyone was still in little knots, often staying close to friends or family, just as she and Geralt were staying close to each other. She had no doubt Jaskier fully intended to change that as soon as he could, and once he did she knew she’d be in no state to enjoy anything but the music. Best to make full use of this time. Her eyes took in the rest of her surroundings, especially the people. It was easy to distinguish the sorceresses from the royal ladies, although both were dressed in the height of fashion. The former were works of art to a woman, with the poise and elegance that came from having recreated oneself on one’s own terms, and reaching a level of mastery few could even imagine, setting them apart from their supposed superiors, who merely had the pride and confidence of generations of “good” breeding. (Inbreeding, more like, her irrepressible cynicism pointed out.) Something similar applied to their male counterparts, although Ban Ard students didn’t go in for physical transformations. Always the same story: women were judged on their looks much more than men, even when both were equally gifted in the ways that actually mattered. She looked down at her own attire. “I feel like a donkey among thoroughbreds.”

“You look fine.” Easy for Geralt to say. He and Jaskier had had a furious argument about his outfit, compromising on something flattering but not showy in black linen. An old friend of Geralt’s, Triss Merigold, had run it up for him, as well as sneaking him and El into the hall, all the while peppering Geralt with questions he declined to answer. El had politely refused Triss’s offer of a new dress. Her existing ballgown, summer-sky blue satin with a close-fitting bodice, a full but not impractical skirt and long sleeves that were tight (now almost _too_ tight; she’d put on muscle in the previous four years) above the elbow and loose below it, was enough for her. Besides, she’d spent a month’s food bill on the perishing thing and intended to get maximum wear out of it. She’d augmented it with dark blue pearl earrings and a white pearl on a gold chain around her neck, both gifts from family members. Her hair was loose and held off her face by a pair of elaborate-looking braids. That had been the most time-consuming part of the process of getting ready, worse than remembering how makeup worked. She’d had to ask Triss for help with the eyeliner. With her eyesight, putting it on neatly and symmetrically was impossible, but the sorceress had done a perfect job. Even so, she knew she was well below the room’s average in terms of appearance, and hoped nobody would comment.

“Would you honour me with a dance, my lady?” Her mind elsewhere, El found herself accepting the invitation without thinking. Her new partner was a handsome black-haired mage with a dark complexion, wearing military dress uniform and a rather ostentatious sword that nonetheless showed signs of heavy use. As he led her through the opening figures of a pavane, he introduced himself. “Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. I’m a friend of Triss Merigold’s. She told me who you are.” Any fear that he’d give her and Geralt away was allayed by his smile, and the clear signs that here was a born mischief-maker and courtly rogue. He was enjoying bending the rules. Mercifully, he didn’t seem to be a chatterer. There were few things El disliked doing more than trying to concentrate on a conversation when everything in her body just wanted to flow with the music.

The unwritten rule about not keeping to one partner was one that Vilgefortz did respect, however. As the pavane ended, he bowed to her as she curtsied, then melted away into the crowd, leaving her to look around for her next victim, more circumspectly than she usually would. She could see Geralt halfway across the room, being captured by an ice-queen of a sorceress she recognised as Sabrina Glevissig, mage to the court of Kaedwen. Triss had pointed her out earlier. El knew that Geralt was _not_ comfortable with this, so made sure to catch his eye to send a reassurance-message. It worked rather better than the please-dance-with-me eye-messages she was trying to send to likely-looking young men. Fortunately for her, Matteo, an old friend of hers from Ban Ard – the one who supplied her with her most unusual ingredients – responded just as the next dance, a galliard, began and the music took hold once more.

The pattern repeated itself for a few more sets. El suspected that Triss and Matteo had independently instructed several of their friends to make sure that she and Geralt had a good time. Not so much of a good time that they forgot why Jaskier had wanted them to come in the first place. She could see Geralt warning off at least one potential troublemaker during a pause between dances, and diverted a couple herself in her own way. It had to be done carefully, in a hall full of mages, but she thought she’d got away with it – up until the woman in red addressed her as she looked around for a new partner.

“I don’t remember your name on the guest list.” El turned to see one of the most self-possessed, self-controlled people she’d ever sensed. _Lightning in a bottle_ was the only way to describe this sorceress. Her fresh-blood dress perfectly complemented her dark hair and eyes and pale skin. The star medallion that was her main ornament, apart from understated gold-and-pearl earrings, would have looked dull on anyone else, but nothing about her would ever be ordinary. If El’s will had been one whit less strong, she’d have been too overawed to reply. But after a quarter-century of standing up for herself, it would take a lot to silence her entirely.

“I suppose you could say I’m with the bard.” She felt she didn’t need to explain further. Somehow, the mage was reading her like a book, and she had to fight down the urge to slam herself shut.

“Tissaia de Vries.” The woman extended a hand. “Rectoress of Aretuza.”

“Electra Mac an Aba, at your service.” She’d half-forgotten what a mouthful her family name was. It had been years since she’d last used it. “Apothecary of – well, you won’t have heard of it, but a village about a day’s ride from Ban Ard.”

“And what is a girl with a Skelligen name and Oxenfurt accent, who lives in deepest Kaedwen, doing here in the company of the White Wolf and his tame song-thrush?” The dismissive tone hid deep curiosity. Not unexpected. El tackled the question as though it were in an exam paper.

“My great-grandfather left Skellige for Redania decades ago. Decided he was better off looking after someone else’s land than struggling to make his own farm pay. I grew up in Oxenfurt, but didn’t want to stay in academia, and Redania can be… challenging… for someone who doesn’t quite fit in.” Tissaia gave an almost imperceptible nod in sympathy. Mages had an even harder time in Redania than people like El. It was one thing to stand out from the crowd; quite another to have your work brutally taxed and be imprisoned for failing to pay. “Kaedwen is more accepting, especially around Ban Ard. And I met Geralt and Jaskier about six months ago, when a graveir took up residence just outside my village. Geralt dealt with it for us.” Her right hand went unconsciously to her left forearm, where said beast had left its mark. “We’ve been corresponding ever since, and I’ve been supplying him with a few potions and medicines he finds useful. Jaskier wanted Geralt to come along tonight, and Geralt wanted safety in numbers.”

A smile twitched the corner of Tissaia’s mouth as she read between the lines. El had only met one other person as good at unhitching their emotions from their expression, and he was standing by the opposite wall, trying not to be noticed. She could guess why Tissaia kept her feelings on a tight rein. Magic was about controlling chaos. Emotions were, by their nature, chaotic. That fact kept her in regular work, but must surely be a deadly danger to any mage, especially such a powerful one. She sensed Tissaia’s strong affection for her pupils, past and present. Her regret over what they had to sacrifice to reach their full potential, and over what happened to those who fell short. El didn’t know what either was, but they didn’t feel good. Her pride in her former students making the world a better place, and a little in herself for shaping them for their tasks, and in many cases rescuing them from the life of an outcast. Worry, too. She had the impression that that was a recent addition, and thought she might know its source. Nilfgaard. Their wretched armies had butchered their way through country after country, and stories reached even her secluded part of the Continent of the mages that helped them. Mages that disregarded all laws, all conventions. If just one of those had been Tissaia’s student, she could imagine the heartache that the woman kept locked away even from El’s searching gaze.

Tissaia appeared unaware of these thoughts. “Appeared” was probably the operative word, but El couldn’t blame her for avoiding the subject. “So you’re here to – what? Fix up the valiant witcher or the stupid singer if they get into trouble?”

“If necessary, but I was intending to stop trouble from happening to them. I’m a natural peace-weaver, and I’ve broken up my fair share of fights.” She contrived to keep pride out of her voice. It was a statement of fact.

“Hadn’t you better do your job, then?” Tissaia was right. Geralt was talking to an unassuming-looking man in black and gold, who seemed to be halfway through middle age. Looks could be extremely deceptive, especially here. Even at that distance, El sensed anger and hatred rolling off Geralt, matched by aggression and self-righteousness on the part of the other man. She had minutes to separate them. With a hasty “excuse me” to Tissaia, she made her way through the crowd, pushing decorum to its limits and pausing only to pick up two glasses of wine from a table along her route. Where her gifts failed, or would be too dangerous, alcohol generally succeeded.

Just in time. Thirty seconds more, she estimated, and Geralt’s sword – no power on the Continent could separate him from it – would have been drawn, and met with magical resistance. She inserted herself between them and summoned up her command-voice. “All right, that’s _enough_!”

The mage spluttered in outrage at being addressed like a tavern brawler. “Do you know who I am, girl?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” She managed not to flinch at his tone as he’d said _girl_.

“Master Stregobor.” Once again, Geralt pronounced “master” in such a way as to strip it of all respect. “Former mage of Blaviken.” Oh dear. This was the man who was responsible for Geralt’s oldest and worst epithet. Even Jaskier’s best efforts hadn’t quite buried the story of the marketplace slaughter that had ruined the witcher’s reputation for decades.

“And rector of Ban Ard before that.” Tissaia had joined them. “I quite understand your feelings, but if you try anything under my roof, I can assure you that you will regret it.”

“Sixty girls and women are dead because of him.” Only Geralt could say that so evenly, despite the thunderstorm in his heart. El remembered that one of the victims at Blaviken had been a young woman, just eighteen. A princess. Had she meant something to Geralt? It would explain why he was so angry with the man whose hand had guided his blade.

All the same, she had to calm him down, at least temporarily. “And killing him won’t bring them back. It’ll just put more blood on your hands. I know you know that. Now, simmer down, the pair of you, and have a drink.” She pushed the glasses she was carrying into their hands. They accepted in silence, still glaring at each other. Tissaia had seen the direction of her strategy – she knew how easily people, especially men, could be influenced – and picked up two more glasses. She passed one to El, and raised her own in a toast. “To the daughters of the Black Sun.”

“May they rest in peace.” El packed as much emphasis into the sentence, especially the last word, as she could. She’d heard _that_ story, too. The fallacy of the lesser evil angered her. There was always a third way, if one looked hard enough.

Geralt emptied his glass at a gulp and strode off. Stregobor seemed about to thank El, but she turned the full force of her golden glare on him. “The past is as it is, but if you try anything with me or mine in future, you will know the full meaning of _regret_.” Now it was her turn to sweep away in a swirl of skirts, Tissaia following and Stregobor left frozen in their wake.

“Nicely done,” Tissaia commented in an undertone once they were out of his earshot. El had sensed bad blood between the mages. It went beyond the professional rivalry with which she was all too familiar. She’d put a non-negligible amount of coin on a history of ideological disputes. And the murders of the girls only _suspected_ of heralding the end of the world, on so very tenuous grounds, had to have touched Tissaia’s heart.

“It’s kind of you to say so, but I know I can do better than that. Stregobor’s reputation, and the damage he did to Geralt’s, unbalanced me somewhat.”

“It worked, didn’t it? I’d say your man had a lucky escape – or Stregobor did.”

“Geralt isn’t my man.” Anything to get away from the subject of the ex-rector. “He’s a friend.” She’d never understood the phrase “just friends”. Friendship, to her, was one soul in two bodies. “Besides, his heart is elsewhere. Someone called Yennefer.” That had slipped out before she could stop it. The wine had seized control of her tongue.

“Yennefer of Vengerburg?” Surprise tinted Tissaia’s tone.

“Could be. Neither he nor Jaskier want to go into detail. Why, do you know her?”

“She was one of my best pupils, once. Powerful, but stubborn and self-willed. She missed her own initiation over being sent to the wrong court. Talked her way into undergoing the transformation anyway. Without anaesthetic.” She really was good. The sympathetic wince barely showed. “She got where she wanted to go, did almost nothing important for three decades, then vanished. Turned up again as a mage for hire.” That also hurt, in a different way. Tissaia was an idealist at heart. Selling enchantments cheapened the whole business. “I hear of her, now and again. I keep hoping she’ll come back. It’s a shame to see such potential go to waste.”

“And you’re worried about her.” That sentence was also steered to El’s mouth by the wine, but that didn’t make it untrue. Likewise the next one. “All your students are like daughters to you, but she’s special.”

Tissaia actually looked taken aback. “You’re a bit young to have a daughter, or even an apprentice.”

“I’ll be twenty-six this autumn.” Most people got El’s age wrong. It had long since ceased to annoy her. “And I do have an apprentice. Just for a year. After we finish our formal training, it’s usual to spend some time working for a more experienced apothecary. If we’re lucky, as I was, it’ll be someone ready to hand the business over, partly or wholly. I’m nowhere near retirement, so Tara will have to find another teacher, or set up on her own. Part of me knows she’ll be fine, but another part probably won’t ever stop worrying.”

They lapsed into silence, each surprised to have found a kindred spirit in the other. The current dance was coming to an end. Tissaia’s hand was claimed by Vilgefortz (plenty of alchemy going on _there_ , El noted), and El was just looking around for another partner when the last person she’d have expected to do so uttered the conventional invitation.

“May I have the honour of this dance?” Geralt had learned _very_ well. A stranger wouldn’t have known that this was foreign territory to him.

“The honour is all mine.” El let Geralt lead her on to the floor. Dancing with him was different from partnering the mages and lordlings who had been unwise enough to take her on earlier in the evening. They were friends and comrades in arms. One soul in two bodies. And he moved like a fighter, as, now, did she. They matched each other’s rhythm perfectly, where most men expected to set the pace while she followed. This was a volta, fast and energetic, just the thing for this point in the proceedings, or so she believed. That ought to wake everyone up. She could hear that Jaskier had observed this turn of events, and woven the chorus of “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher” into the melody. Cheeky beggar.

Not everyone shared her opinion on the proper order of dances at a ball. Many of their fellow dancers had retired for a breather, and they had the floor almost to themselves, although she saw Tissaia and Vilgefortz still going, and Triss with a young man whose eyes seemed curiously blue in his light brown face crowned by frizzy black hair. Round and round the witcher and the apothecary went, ivory and bronze, midnight and noonday, hunter and healer. As the tempo increased, El felt herself reach the point where fatigue dropped away and she could dance the moon down and the sun up. Something told her Geralt would be happy to take his little sister up on that challenge.

Nothing mattered but this, not now. Just the music filling her from head to heel, her partner matching her step for step and the occasional obstacles provided by other couples. No longer caring about the consequences, El threw back her head and laughed. She had threatened one senior member of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers and got away with it. Made a personal friend of another. And she was dancing with the White Wolf. Whatever life threw at her, probably starting with stiff joints the next morning, this enchanted evening would live long in her memory. But at that moment, all she wanted to do was _live_.


End file.
